


But I'm better Looking

by Jillybeanies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Humor, friends being friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7815640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillybeanies/pseuds/Jillybeanies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Hawke wanted to do was fix that terrible statue down at the docks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I'm better Looking

**Author's Note:**

> I like to write silly things that become serious. Special thanks to freshneverfrozen for acting as my beta and giving me some lovely pointers. Thank you so much!

“Hawke."

 "Aveline."

 The Captain of the Guard releases a temperamental groan when she storms into her private office to find her longtime companion clapped in irons and wearing her typical cheeky grin. Hawke waves hello as if she's just waltzed into Aveline's office and did not spend the night passed out on her face in one of the spare holdings cells. Aveline ignores Hawke and instead goes to inspect her desk where Donnic has laid out and neatly organized two daggers, a well-loved lockpick, eight tar bombs, two fell grenades, five vials of crow venom, three Dalish arrowheads, a single moth-eaten scarf, and three sets of torn trousers.

 Of course Hawke has been going through the trash again. She'd never stopped.

 "Give me the gist of it."

 "Or you could just ask." Hawke offers sweetly.

 "Shut it, Hawke. Donnic?" Aveline's thick brows go low and her long face scrunches up.

 "We found her earlier this morning, a few hours after midnight, defacing public property."

 From across the room Aveline fights to find Hawke's eyes, a difficult task considering how Hawke looks everywhere but at the red haired guard-captain.

 "What public property?" Aveline questions, her iron like glare never softening.

 "Well…" Donnic runs a hand through his oily hair, still damp from the sweat of nightly patrol. "We found her defacing the Champion Statue recently unveiled down at the docks."

 Aveline perks up at this as she can painfully recall just how excited Hawke had been when Kirkwall commissioned a statue in her honor. For the entire month of Wintermarch Hawke had made it a point to casually, or in some cases not so casually, slip this fact into just about every conversation. _'How's the old ball and chain Lady Elegant? No, nevermind, not important. What is important is that I'm going to be a statue.'_ Of course Varric's stories had only made it worse as each new telling of the dual grew more and more fantastical. At one point, Aveline swears she can remember some drunken fool insist that Hawke had turned into a dragon.

 "What's all this about, Hawke? You couldn't shut up about the thing and now you're vandalizing it?" It doesn't make sense. In the six years that Aveline has known the woman, Hawke has never been conventional in any of her actions but there has always been a reason behind them.

 Well, as good of a reason as 'because I felt like it' could be.

 Aveline folds her arms and leans back into her chair, one that creaks under the strain of her weight. She waits patiently, tapping her pointer finger rhythmically against her dented armor that's in much need of repair. Hawke paws at her mass of oily hair, her lips shut.

 "We can stay here all day, Hawke, I've got all the time in the world." It's a lie and they both know it.

 A quick look up at today's schedule written in big chalk letters says that the guard-captain is already behind schedule. Both know that the rest of Aveline's day will be spent playing catching up, all because of a certain Champion who felt it within her rights to act out. It's times like this that Aveline wonders why she'd stayed at the rogue's side for so long.

 A stagnant air falls over the three adults. Hawke seems content to slouch against her chair, looking very much like a child who's been told 'no'. Aveline takes a sharp inhale of humid air, grinds her teeth, and bangs her fist against the desk.

 "HAWKE!"

 "What? I was doing Kirkwall a vital service and improving my statue."

 "Your statue?"

 "Yes, _my_ statue." Hawke states, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

 She picks herself up from her atrocious posture and makes a point of obnoxiously clamoring her bound hands in Donnic's general direction. To his credit, the married man takes no action to release the Champion. Instead he stands at attention, stick shoved straight up his arse, and awaits further instructions.

 "It's not your statue, Hawke, it's Kirkwall's."

 "Well it's a statue of me."

 "That belongs to Kirkwall."

 In the corner, Donnic shifts uncomfortably, as one caught between a feud of two friends often does.

 "Have you seen it?" Hawke inquires through puckered lips, a telling sign of her annoyance.

Aveline shakes her head no, she hasn't. She doesn't get down to the docks nearly as much as she ought. From the corner of her eye Aveline watches as Hawke gracelessly bites at what she can only guess is some thin wire sewn into her tunics collar. She's holding the wire in less than a minute.

 "It's hideous, like... I don't know some kind of spider-darkspawn hybrid...thing. I don't know if you're aware but I'm quite a catch, ask Varric."

 Aveline rolls her eyes at the rogue, whose description of herself grows more warped by the second.

 "That doesn't say much. Varric couldn't say a bad thing about you even if his life depended on it."

 "And you wonder why he's my favorite. Don't you think the statue erected in my honor should reflect that beauty?"

 "I wouldn't know, Hawke. You always seemed rather plain to me." Aveline holds her smile and victory close and paints to memory Hawke's crestfallen face.

 "Let's ask Donnic. Donnic!" Hawke turns suddenly in her chair to find the stern gaze of Aveline's husband and jangles her hands again. "Donnic, tell Aveline how gorgeous I am."

 The guard swallows a sudden mouthful of stale air. "I,uh, don't think that would be appropriate, Serah Hawke, for a multitude of reasons."

 "My, you do keep him on a short leash. Does he bark and play fetch, too?"

 To Aveline's great distress it turns out that this is only the first of many complaints Hawke has in regard to her statue. All of which are, apparently, in urgent need of address.

 "When that hoity-toity Orlesian artist came to the estate I gave him simple instructions on what I wanted the statue to look like. I even showed him the leathers I wore when I fought the Arishok!"

 It takes no stretch of the imagination for Aveline to picture this. Hawke has always had the tendency to save just about everything and anything she ever came across, be it in some lost treasure chest or the rubble of the alienage. A penchant possibly explained by her sparse belongings as a child, not that Hawke talks much about that part of her life. Varric often related her to the magpie, some kind of bird that collects shiny things. Aveline just considers the woman a hoarder. Alas, Varric always has had a way of spinning words, which is exactly why he writes and Aveline bashes faces in.

 "I don't see what problem is-"

 "The problem is-" Hawke interjects just as she starts to strain against the wrist restraints holding her. "That besides that spectacular portrait Mother insisted on having commissioned, this is the only thing that will remind people that I actually existed."

 The Guard Captain can think of a few counter points to that logic but only offers a stern glare.

 "Now, I don't know about you, but I'd much rather have people think back fondly on me and say _'Remember that Hawke woman? You know, the one who knifed the Arishok? Gee, wasn't she something?'_ Instead of _'Maker, that Marian Hawke sure looks constipated '_ which I was, but that's not the point."

 Despite the absurdity of it all, that this master thief is escaping the cuffs right in front of the Guard Captain's eyes, Aveline admires the effortlessness of the grand escape taking place right before her. Hawke inserts the hidden thin strip of metal beneath the ratchet of the shackle. Once it's in place she tightens the irons and listens for the teeth to slide over the wire and give way to silence. The shackles soon clatter loudly against the stone floor.

 Aveline pushes a jar of elfroot balm at Hawke the second the woman starts to massage the bright red blots of broken skin, a hard hiss on her teeth.

 "What's so hard about having me clawing on the Arishok's back and stabbing him? Just think about it Aveline, it'd be magnificent- blood everywhere! A real testament to my heroic nature."

 "Funny. Because at the time, I seem to recall you bleeding out." The Guard-Captain says as she slips the balm back into her desk.

 Hawke gives a few grunts and then casually waves off that particular detail with a quick flick of her wrist. Aveline frowns. Of course Hawke would wave off her almost dying from blood loss after being on the receiving end of what should have been a fatal blow.

 It's a sight Aveline will never rid herself of. Her face falls at the thought. Indestructible Hawke, always ready with some bad joke and a crooked grin, skewered on the Arishok's blade like a slab of cheap meat. Whitty Hawke, broken and screaming in rage. Her fading eyes bloodshot and chest heaving. Blood everywhere. Too much blood.

 "I assure you, it was all part of my plan." Hawke insists.

 From the corner, Donnic coughs back what sounds like the start of a laugh. Aveline sends a stern look in his direction and tilts her head to dismiss him. He quickly goes to gather up Hawke's personal belongings, shares a private nod with his wife and finally closes the door closes behind him. Hawke, who has never squandered an opportunity, settles comfortably back into her chair, her filthy boots propped up on Aveline's desk and her fingers pleasantly laced together. 

"So, tell me – what's the exact procedure on arresting the Champion of Kirkwall?"

 "None. Do I look like I want all of Kirkwall banging on my door screaming for your release?"

 She'd rather avoid that particular headache. Hawke sits unflinching at her friend's harsh tone; it's the kind Aveline normally uses whenever she or Isabela are within ten feet of each other. Steel gauntlets gather up official looking documents which Aveline snappily signs and dates.

 "No real damage was done. Just a whole lot of mess, which you will clean up."

 Hawke groans.

 "Thankfully, you weren't intoxicated. I'm writing you up for disturbing the peace."

Aveline pours wax on the forms and pounds her seal into the sturdy desk that shakes under the force. Hawke feels a bead of sweat run into the blisters circling her wrists.

"Pay your dues and get out, Hawke. Some of us _actually_ have work to do."

 Somehow, Aveline manages to make handing over forms menacing, as if it's a casual reminder she could beat in anyone's face. The rogue snatches up the paperwork and glances it over. When she has finished, Hawke wonders if she'll see Aveline at their weekly card game.

 "So is that a yes, or-"

 "It's a get out or I'll throw you out."

 Hawke's just about to open her mouth once more when she's rudely introduced to the front of Aveline's door, an introduction she's had far too many times before. She pockets the ticket, runs a hand up her unwashed neck, which creaks in protest each time she rolls it. Best to go and find Donnic and get her things back.

 Except things are never easy or go as planned whenever she is involved. Donnic and a few other faces Hawke recognizes but has never bothered to learn their names sit in the mess stuffing their faces with runny eggs and mystery sausage. Hawke quickly discovers that her belongings are now in the greasy hands of her casual nemesis, Seneschal Bran. The name alone makes Hawke's arm hair stand up. Seneschal Bran, a man who grew grumpier with each meeting. As if the man hadn't been annoying enough, he's been particularly grouchy since the whole Qunari invasion.

 "Sorry, Champion. Rules are rules." Donnic explains as he takes a long sip of his coffee.

 Hawke finds Bran after a prolonged five minutes in the same office he's held for the past six years.

 The glorified secretary oozes smugness, his dopey side swept hair looking especially dopey as he makes a point of stamping a crest on official documents. It's like he's trying to look important.

 "Messere Hawke, how interesting it is to meet you here."

 "You're still here?" Hawke picks at her uncut nails. "And here I thought you'd be out of a job after the last Viscount lost his head." She makes a point of miming a blade pulled across her throat. Dead.

 Bran looks suddenly like he's taken a bite out of a particularly sour fruit and then had the remaining juice squirted straight into his eyes. One day, he's going to let loose and actually punch her, a day Hawke waits for with baited breath. He peevishly collects his work and stamps them together so they resemble some sort of proper order.

 "Yes, well, before the madame can leave you must pay the five gold bail our Guard Captain has graciously allotted you." As he speaks, he's holding her empty coin purse in his freakishly small hands.

 "Well, funny story, as you can see I don't have five gold on me."

 "Oh dear. That is a problem." Bran doesn't even bother to mask his fake sympathy. "Since you are the Champion I supposed I could let you return to your estate to get the coin. But, I'll have to add on another three for the inconvenience fee. Not much of an inconvenience since I'm sure Messere can afford it."

 Hawke clicks her tongue when Bran turns sharply to dig behind his desk for her items. Once found, the useless secretary shoves her things as if they've been touched by the blight.

 "How thoughtful." Hawke sneers while hastily gathering up her belongings.

 She swiftly removes herself from the building filled with all the stuck up nobles who insist on trying to talk with her. Fueled by the most energizing of all emotions, spite, Hawke makes her way down the ancient stone steps. She seeks out obvious but often overlooked places, like crates or under the wheels of carts to place vials of tar bombs. Sooner or later, somebody from the barracks will come by and won't they be surprised?

Hawke arrives at her estate around eleven, about the same time she usually manages to drag herself out of bed. The house is spotless and as always, Hawke feels a tinge of guilt crawl up her throat when she comes face to face with a newly washed floor. Her boots are disgusting all covered in with flecks of crusty mud, dried on blood, what smells like shit, and whatever else Kirkwall's streets are infested with. She decides to leave them outside for now.

 The calming perfume of elfroot burns in the fireplace fills the estate with the sweet scent. Orana has already cooked breakfast and left a plate for Hawke to find when she's hungry. She now makes herself busy scrubbing dishes left to soak from the night before until she's satisfied. Bodahn is helping his son into the boy's good vest nearby.

 "Going out?" Hawke asks and goes over to the desk.

 "Yes, Messere. I thought it'd be good to take the boy with me on some errands."

 Hawke nods and suddenly hit by a jolt of brilliance goes to the safe. She separates eight gold coins and presses them into the man's large hands once he's finished correcting his son's clothes. In a sort of passive rebellion, she gives the man instructions to exchange the amount for as many coppers and silvers as possible.

 "Preferably coppers," Hawke stresses.

 The loyal manservant nods and pockets the gold. It's not the strangest thing Hawke has asked for over the years.

 "You can count on me. We'll be back in a jiff, just have to pick up some things for the house. Come along, Sandal."

 "Bye Bye." Hawke waves an affectionate hand after the boy, whose feet scuff the waxed floor while he counts his coin.

 She hears him ask, "Can we stop to get cinnamon buns?"

 "Haha! Of course, my boy, anything you like. After all, it is your money -"

 Hawke closes the door behind them.

 With no other plans for the day Hawke spends the next few hours casually playing a game of tug a war with Robin in the entrance hall, a game she assures both the mabari and Orana she'd let him win. At one point, Enid, Orana's personal music instructor shows for their bi weekly lessons. Hawke likes Enid. She's a feisty antique, dark even by Antiva's standards, who hobbles around Kirkwall in her finest fur and a matching hat. She also has a cane used just as much for swatting strays as it is for walking. Enid has only seven and a half toes, the half supposedly lost to a crazed lover with a foot fetish.

 Hawke's not sure if she needed to know that last part.

 Tucked away at the large desk in the library, Hawke is close enough to clumsily hum along to the few recognized scales Leandra had once attempted to teach her. Her drooling status symbol nuzzles into her lap and the fireplace is nothing but embers as Hawke catches up on the journal she'd been neglecting for the past few days.

  _9:37 Dragon - 12 Tuesday, Guardian_

  _Played prank on Sebastian. Ran from Sebastian. Lectured thoroughly about the splendors of the Chantry by Sebastian. Had dinner with Isabela._

  _9:37 Dragon - 13 Wednesday, Guardian_

_Helped Varric destroy letters from Merchants Guild. Attempted to correct statue._

  _9:37 Dragon - 14 Thursday, Guardian_

  _Woke up in jail. Had a lovely chat with Aveline (no longer on honeymoon high). Plans to make Bran's life miserable._

 As she writes, she hears the old Antivan speaking to Orana.

 "Good, you've been practicing." Enid compliments. Even Hawke who possesses no musical can pick up on the differences between today and last Thursday as Orana more easily transitions from one chord to another. "Once more."

 Bodhan and his son return as Enid is leaving, the kind father's arms are loaded down with an assortment of bags. Sandal carefully carries a pink box wrapped with twine over to his favorite spot for enchanting.

 She thanks them both and ties off the bag so none of the coins would fall. Being the highly responsible and respected citizen she is, Hawke purposefully returns to the Viscount's office just as the heavy iron doors are about to close. Seneschal Bran is in the middle of tidying his desk when he briefly glances up and finds Hawke, who leans nonchalantly against his door.

 "Look what I have." She unveils the bag bursting with coins and immediately strides over to his desk. "You'll have to forgive me for paying in coppers."

 He falls to his seat, miniature hands raking through his hair as Hawke fetches a chair that screeches and scuffs the floor. As she sits, Hawke explains that she thinks she has the right amount but she's not quite sure.

 "We are open tomorrow, Champion." Bran's small voice offers a meaningless reminder.

 "Oh, I know. But Aveline is always telling me to stop putting off what I could do today."

 "How thoughtful of her."

 The pair share the largest of fake smiles.

 For Hawke it's simply glorious to sit watching Seneschal Bran's face turn the exact shade of red as his hair when she begins to count out the coins. One. By. One. She steals a glance at the man whose fists clutch at his cufflinks so hard the tips of his fingers go white.  He had been particularly nasty today, so the rogue makes sure to stop on occasion and ask the typical mundane questions the nobility of Kirkwall are so keen on. _So how's life? Been to any good parties lately? The other day I had the most marvelous of pies._ She goes back to her task the moment his face goes a plum purple.

"Oh no. I forgot where I was again. Better start over." Hawke lamely adds on her third attempt.

 Suddenly, Bran's hand strikes to grab Hawke's wrist and holds it hard in his grasp.

 "Stop. Just. Go. Please...just go." He's broken. An hour and a half of counting coins and Bran looks as if he won't be able to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Hawke breathes in the strange sense of accomplishment that settles down deep. Maybe he’ll cry.

 "This is official Kirkwall business and as the Champion, I -" It's no contest. She's stronger than him and jerks her wrist easily out of his hold.

 "Out. Hawke. I-I will count them myself." His face is a flushed red and stained from the sweat he's been leaking.

 "Well," Hawke releases her hold on his wrist and grandly pushes herself up to her full height. "You could have said that before I wasted all my time this evening, Seneschal Bran. As always, it's been a pleasure."

 -.-.-.-.-.-

 Aveline finishes her workload a little after Hawke leaves. She says goodnight to Donnic who has volunteered for the night duty and nods fondly at the guardsman who bid her off. She lets out a few curses and rolls her shoulders which are stiff with knots after a long day of paperwork, new recruit training, and of course, Hawke. Routine footsteps takes her down the cobblestone streets, which are littered with citizens eager to return home after a long day. Annoyed shopkeepers impatiently wait to pack up their goods and snap at last minute shoppers. The customers sift through the remaining produce, demanding unrelentingly a better price.

 On weeks when Donnic signs up for the night shift, Aveline often finds herself at one of the many suspicious looking vendors that pop up from the sewers around dinnertime. Most, if not all of the time, she eats at stalls that she and the Hawke sisters had grown accustomed to and even fond of during their first year in Kirkwall.

 Six years. Aveline lets out a breath just thinking about it. A whole year of smuggling and holding her tongue while that tiny elf woman barked orders and milked them for ten times more than she'd paid. Unsurprisingly, Hawke, with her slippery fingers and general willingness to do whatever was needed, thrived in the underworld.

 Just thinking of that foul elf leaves a putrid taste in Aveline's mouth. A taste she rides with a brown sandwich that's more soggy than dry. She pushes her coin into the impatient hand of the one eyed cook. In all the years that Aveline has stopped at this run down stall she's never bothered to ask what exactly it was that she was eating. It's never mattered, honestly. Eat or go to bed with an empty stomach. Aveline has always chosen to eat.

Because she's in Lowtown and the statue Hawke had so carelessly trashed is just around the corner, Aveline figures she'll at least stop and see the damage with her own eyes. It's worse than she thought. First of all, Hawke had been right in her complaints. The monument built to honor the Champion and all her accomplishments in her dealings with the Qunari is, well, generic at best and covered in tar and goose feathers.

 The two additions are no doubt courtesy of the Champion herself.

 "Maker, I thought she was joking." Aveline shoves more of the questionable food into her mouth and takes a step back to admire the statue in all its awful glory. "She doesn't even use a sword."

 "I know!" Aveline is thrown by the familiar voice suddenly at her side. "All my victims know I prefer knives. Two times the fun."

 Despite everything, Aveline allows herself to smile at the tasteless joke offered from Hawke who stands close by, eating her own mystery food. For once she lacks the usual swipe of blood across her nose.

 "I told- ou!" Hawke coughs wildly when the food goes down wrong. "Agh..agh! I told you, it's awful." Aveline shakes her head and bangs her hand against Hawke's back a few time. Hawke coughs louder. "Agh! I think I just swallowed a toenail."

 "Are you sure it's supposed to be you and not me?"

 "Well if it's you, you look like a man."

 "Watch it, Hawke." The guard captain warns firmly. Hawke hears affection.

 The two friends melt into a familiar silence as they chew their food and are left with their own thoughts. Night begins to creep across the City of Chains.

 "Once you get over the smell of fish, this place isn't that bad."

 Hawke cackles then wipes her greasy fingers clean on her blood stained trousers.

 "What's so funny?" Aveline asks.

 "You. Whatever you do don't take Donnie on a date here. It's hardly romantic.”

 "I wasn't!"

 "Right. Right. I'll pretend I believe you."

 "You're doing a bloody bad job."

 Hawke laughs freely and loudly. Unrestrained. It's been awhile since Aveline heard that particular laugh, what with everything that has happened in the last few years. First Carver, then Bethany, and finally her mother lost while the well-intentioned rogue sat helplessly. She shoulders the burden laughing everything off until she cracks. Now that Aveline thinks about it, Hawke hasn't had much to smile about. Aveline only now realizes how much she missed it.

 Hawke kicks at the pebbles and asks about Aveline's married life, her veil-colored eyes facing forward and looking much older than her twenty-nine years. Dark heavy bags have become a regular feature on her face. Aveline speaks of the omelets Donnic makes and their occasional days off spent wandering the markets. Hawke nods, licks her greasy fingers clean, and chucks the remaining food at the base of her statue. It looks like shit has been smeared on the writing.

 "Hawke. How are you?"

 "Grand. I made Bran's life miserable, always a plus."

 This will get them nowhere. Best to charge in.

 "Come on Hawke, what's this really all about?"

 Hawke angrily nods at the memorial.

 "Your statue?"

 "Yes, look at it! I can't stand it." She stomps over to the thing and breathes in the salty air of the docks. "Champion, huh? It's nothing like me."

 Aveline can hear the bitterness that makes Hawke’s consonants hard like the blades she obsessively sharpens.

 Hawke continues to glare at the thing before reaching into her many bags and taking out a few unlabeled liquids. The statue is covered from her previous actions tar stubbornly sticking at odd places and feathers.

 "Since you're here, be a friend and help me."

 Hawke throws a rag in Aveline's direction. She catches it easily.

 "I'll get the top." Her tone leaves no room for debate. Hawke, with her impossibly long legs, easily finds a suitable hand rest to pull herself up onto the statue.

They spend the next few hours picking off the feathers Hawke had used for decoration. She still swears it'd been a good plan at the time, to which Aveline rolls her eyes. Hawke works at the top pouring generous amounts on the green liquid she'd brought with her and scrubbing like a mad woman. It's like she's finally channeling all those emotions wrapped so tightly up. She swears loudly and goes for her daggers when the scrubbing gives mixed results. The ping of steel against stone echoes through the docks and Hawke growls each time she is made to pick off tar that sticks to her blades.

The work is slow and arduous. It also requires more effort than originally thought. Each time Hawke is made to tighten her grasp around the statue's chest and strain to clumsily swipe at the muck on the hilt of the sword, a frustration builds up inside her.  It's slow at first but steadily growing as she holds her breath until it explodes. Hawke loses her grip on her daggers and tightens her leg muscles around the statue's armor. The frustrated cry she gives is loud and paired with the frantic shuffling of her short ink hair.

 Hawke takes a moment to rest, glances at the tar on the sword's hilt, and decides to say fuck it. Nobody is going to care if there's a bit of sticky stuff on it. Lowering herself from the armor plate she takes a chance to really examine the statue crafted in her honor. She hates it. Everything about it and how it conjures an ideal hero who effortlessly saves the day. It's built in proportion, with her legs long and strong. It's sturdy looking, like it could easily hold a sword and shield, when in reality Hawke strains to even hold those weapons right.

 Kirkwall had needed someone to save them and by coincidence Hawke just happened to be available. It earned her fame, a huge scar across her belly, and the adoration of a public, most of whom don't even know what she looks like. Instead they have this, the perfect hero ready to save the day at a moment's notice. Kirkwall wants the fairy tale hero and Hawke herself is nothing more than a poor girl from Ferelden who couldn't even save her own family. Hawke wants to laugh up at the night sky, still growing darker with each passing hour; instead, she keeps scrubbing and clawing.

 "To be honest, Aveline, I think the taxpayers' coin was wasted on that statue." Hawke circles her wrist to flex the strained muscles that course up and down her right arm. She's finished most of the work, only leaving a few stubborn places marked. Aveline, on the other hand, still has one more side of the pedestal. Hawke throws herself down to the ground and pours the remaining liquid onto the gunk.

 "I have to agree with you," Aveline grunts, "This is a pain in the ass, though maybe that's just you."

 Hawke looks like she's offended before she starts scrubbing.

 "We could just knock it down."

 "Truthfully, I'll be happy if I never see this damn thing again." Aveline wipes at her brow which is stained by a healthy layer of sweat.

 Hawke stops, backs away from the statue, and puts the empty vials in their rightful place.

 "Why don't we just stop? We got most of it off and I could really use a drink," the Champion casually suggests, her arms finding a place at the back of her neck.

 "Alright, but you're buying."

 "Wait- seriously? You don't have to run home and be in bed?" Aveline sees a bit of Hawke's eyes light up.

 She chucks the cloth, stained a permanent black, at the rogue.

 


End file.
